


Laus Ex Laudibus

by londonfalling



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Canon Universe, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Incest, Insecurity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 21:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21259622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: ”I refuse to have sex with you if you wear that,” Vergil manages.“Just now or, like, in general?” Dante asks. It's a pertinent question.Or: Dante plays dress-up with a Gloria costume. Vergil disapproves. (5V/5D)





	Laus Ex Laudibus

**Author's Note:**

> Damn, I'm a bit late for Halloween.  

> 
> Title is nicked from Catullus 111, “glory of glories”. It's not very relevant to the story, but a full translation of the poem can be found at the bottom notes nevertheless.

“Look at what I found,” Dante says and presents the catch to him with an excited flourish. Vergil has banned him from using the word 'booty' to describe more or less anything because of an unfortunate incident some time ago that's best forgotten by all parties involved, but there's nothing to stop him from thinking of it vehemently while he holds his arms out and shakes the precious spoils as an invite. It remains to be seen if he can read his mind as accurately and in detail as it sometimes, often, seems like. The question here is if he'll pay that much attention to Dante and his words and thoughts when there already is something to occupy his attention and keep him company.

“I suppose it is indeed nice,” Vergil says without lifting his gaze from the book, a thick one. He's been doing that a lot, lately; now that the novelty of being in one piece and an intact physical body must have worn out for the most part, he has decided to immerse himself in the world of literature and mental endeavors. Dante gets that, sort of − not really, he was never curious like that by nature and his severe depression didn't exactly help −, but Vergil has his body to examine also, at his very disposal and beck and call even, and continuing to ignore it like this is a crime. It's criminal and he can't understand it at all: there's suddenly a million brand new differences between them, the supposedly identical twins that now only look related to each other to an uncomfortable degree when out in public, and by far the best way to map them out is the hands-on approach. Vergil is a man who appreciates efficiency; surely he has to see that.

“You're not even looking,” he complains. He doesn't use words like that for anything when he's actually describing things he has some kind of sensory perceptions of, for the first. Then there's the fact that there's no chance in Hell he'd call the monstrosity in front of him nice or any variations thereof. Dante's sense of style is not exactly subdued or decent and even he thinks it's too much. That's what makes it perfect; getting a reaction out of his brother is a go big or go home type of thing.

“Yes, dear,” he says, his gaze still glued to the hand-drawn and painstakingly illustrated picture that looks like two men being boiled to death in a large cauldron from where Dante is standing, and despite the overwhelming sarcasm, there's a flutter of affection in his stomach, accompanied with a more distant pang of anxietydespairsadnessinferioritycomplex. One day, he'll make him slip and use a pet name like that seriously. Having him call him darling or the like while fucking will no doubt kill him, but what a way to go, totally worth it. 

“I took your collection of antique cleaning kits for katanas to the pawn shop to pay the rent and now I'm told they've already sold them. Also, someone broke in last night and stole all the extra devil arms I had stashed, so we're broke. I'm thinking of taking up belly dancing lessons to make the ends meet, too,” Dante says.

Vergil merely hums. He's changed the page; now it's a wall of purplish inky text with a highly complex and unnecessarily elaborate depiction of some sort of genital mutilation procedure. If Dante were a superstitious man, he might think it could be a bad omen. He's about ninety percent convinced the asshole does it on purpose, though, knows what he's after and has his fun with it, edgy as he is.

For a fleeting moment, Dante considers saying the three-word four letter word he's been mulling over a lot for some time now. He isn't listening, clearly, so maybe he could do it, confess and have an absolution of sorts without doing nothing but making his vocal cords vibrate in reality. There'll be no response, Vergil won't lash out, Vergil won't leave today. He works the muscles in his throat but they refuse to give shape to the phrase. “I want sex.” “I am horny.” “You look good.” “You me bed.” Those he can do, but anything meaningful never rises above his voice box (not to say that it isn't meaningful to be able and allowed to express the want he's been repressing forever and a bit). It's not like Vergil doesn't know. It's not like it isn't painfully obvious in every way. Mouth forced open, he exhales.

“I -- I found this.” Oh well.

Dante sighs and drops the cardboard box he was holding in his armpit to the ground, aiming for dramatic. It does catch Vergil's attention, but only for the time it takes for him to raise his eyes and note that nothing is opening portals or stabbing his long-suffering baby brother. Then it's firmly pinned back to the flayed organs.

It's good that Dante likes a challenge.

“I thought it'd be destroyed already, eaten by the moths and rats and roaches haunting the attic, but what do I know? Seems that the good folk of Fortuna know how to make durable fabric, at least.”

Ahh, that was a magic word right there. Plenty of portal opening and Dante stabbing took place there, so naturally it must be riveting enough to brother dearest, bona fide aficionado for both. Expressionless eyes meet his in a snap of blue. He tilts his hips and sweeps his hand over the goods in question. He's always excited to demonstrate the endurance and stamina of things, the innuendo very much intended.

Vergil blinks very, very carefully.

“I interpret that as you asking where on earth did I get it from. It's a present from Lady and Trish, if you must know. They felt bad about Trish having all the fun the mission had to offer, so they got me one of those outfits the guards of the Order of the Shortage of Common Sense used to wear to cheer me up. Must've cost them a pretty penny to have it tailored to my measurements. Don't know how they got them, huh. I've no idea what they figured I'd be doing with it either, but I'm happy not knowing.”

Vergil leans back on the couch, visibly on the alert in spite of his blank, blank face. “I already regret asking. What are you doing with it?”

He feels the smirk take over his face. Trust his brother's sometimes morbid curiosity to get the better of the more sensible parts of him. He can't help it, he's just as reckless as he is when you get down to it, when you know where to push. “Dunno. What do people usually do with clothing.” Encouraged by the absence of a reaction, he presses on. “I guess I should finally try it on. They've got to be insulted that it's taken me so long, now that I think about it. Been years since I got it. I might be too buxom for it nowadays. Best to make sure, yeah?”

“Your existence is insulting, but you do not seem to mind,” Vergil says. That's very, very weak as insults go; Dante's delighted to see he's already this rattled. He's definitely leading now.

“Come on, Vergil. It's October; have a little Halloween spirit.” If he tries to highlight the other goods on offer by trailing his hand on them through the silken surface of the copycat garment, it's only to estimate the size, naturally. Frankly, it is very skimpy and snug indeed; there is a strong chance of it being too small to go over his bulky trunk. Surely it has to stretch? Fortunately, Dante wouldn't be too disappointed if he got stuck and Vergil could have his way with him like that, him in a do it yourself bondage set. He's even got the gloves and shoes for that.

”I refuse to have sex with you if you wear that,” Vergil manages. His tone is the tiniest bit strangled − music to his ears.

“What − just now or, like, in general? Categorically?” Dante asks. It's a pertinent question: he can deal with being celibate for a couple of days if the trade-off is amusing enough, but a couple of weeks would already be pushing it and any more than that is surely enough to do his head in, no matter how entertaining ruffling his feathers would be. Vergil has truly and utterly spoiled him because this hasn't ever been a problem before, he did really do forty odd years without and survived to tell the tale (perhaps against his wishes and best attempts, but that's water under the bridge these days, mostly). His right hand might miss their date nights, but on the whole, this is the most content he's ever been, no competition there.

It's nevertheless unfair that he's reduced to a randy teenager at this age, so it's only fair he makes Vergil squirm too, just a little.

Vergil opens his mouth to reply but snaps it closed, suddenly considerate. He's calculating something. Dante adjusts the fabric against his frame and makes a coquettish little spin. There's not a lot of it, the shiny white material, so it's not that easy to show off the fit. Someone like Vergil got to have a good imagination − how else do you come up with even half the shit he's ever pulled? Dante should maybe be a little more concerned about his reading materials, considering −, so it's probably enough in any case.

“Don't you think it is in bad taste to --” He stops himself short, seemingly realizing who he is talking to. Yeah; when you put it that way, you could reasonably claim that the crazy cult people wore this attire to present themselves and their best assets to daddy Sparda in heaven and fuck, that goes firmly into the cold shower thoughts category. If there was an afterlife and dear Father, for some reason that's completely beyond him, decided to spend it by watching his two sons like a proper old voyeur, Dante guesses he would have changed channels or blinded himself Oedipus style at the latest when Vergil learned how much Dante likes to bend himself into new positions for him, how the burn spreads from his core and the v of his legs to his thighs and arms and lower back depending on the pose, such a pleasant fire. He'll do a little dress up for a son of Sparda, sure − himself or his brother he's not sure, but the thought still counts −, but the father and the holy spirits can fuck off.

Dante decides to bleach his brain by looking at Vergil. There's something in the way he's tugged the corner of his mouth that makes excitement paint a mischievous grin on his face in return. He's smelling the blood in the water now. He's fully dressed because of course he is, but the collar of his shirt isn't fastened all the way up properly, revealing a sliver of bone-pale skin and bone. Dante's teeth ache. He wants to bite him and make his annoyed lips tremble around his name.

“Think I could still get it on?” he goes on. Probably the safest bet is to gloss over the hows and whys of the origins of the Gloria costume and preoccupy Vergil with all the possibilities.

“I would prefer it if you did not make me redeem my words.”

“That didn't answer my question.”

“No, it did not,” he says calmly, crossing his legs and setting the book on his lap pointedly in a fluent sequence of artfully bored movements. He smells the blood and is so close to tasting it.

“Your little threat there? Not gonna happen. I don't buy it, you don't buy it, so why don't you save us some time and give me a hand with the dressing up thing?”

“I will not be complicit in this,” he says airily, the closest he gets to a sing-song tone. Then he focuses on the calligraphy again, at least seemingly, and doesn't budge, no matter what Dante flings at him.

Well. A little friction always makes things more interesting. Leaving the box be, he folds the piece of clothing and heads into the hallway where there's a mirror and some sense of privacy in case he ends up looking so bad that he just can't take it in stride. Improbable, but as satisfying it is to witness Vergil laughing, he'd really like that sex now.

Mirroring his earlier movements, he poses in front of the looking glass with the garment. The boots and the gloves are lying under it, patiently waiting for show time. He shrugs and gets to it, throwing his t-shirt off first.

The difference between the apparel he's been given oh so generously and the one Trish wore is that, instead of the golden emblem of the society, this one has some lacing in the back. It must be there for fetish reasons only, doesn't make any practical sense whatsoever, especially to someone who, surprisingly, doesn't have any if you don't take the twin thing into account and isn't planning on getting his rocks off to crossdressing on the regular. Did he really look like someone who spent his time having wild monkey sex with anything other than his palm, he wonders while shucking off his ratty sweatpants. More likely it was meant as a suggestion to stop pining and to getting laid by anything with a pulse of its own. Now that he has, Lady has a hard time looking him in the eye. There's no pleasing some people, he thinks and kicks his socks from his feet.

(She'll get over it, probably, maybe, hopefully.)

Since the dress suddenly seems _really_ constricting, Dante switches tactics and settles for trying to pull it on him from the legs instead of pulling it over his head. There's a considerable choking hazard there. He steps on the tight circle the fabric forms, grunts and tugs and listens for any sound of the material giving in and falling apart, keeping his lungs as empty as possible. He hopes his organs will expand back to their original size after he's done. Fuck − hurts more than expected. But it's on, somehow, suffocating and strangling and really fucking revealing. He can barely bend down to snatch the accessories without his innards popping out from his mouth. Beauty is pain.

It takes a long while for him to finish his fight with the footwear. He's feeling envious of the mobility Trish had in this thing.

“A little help with the back, Verge?” he pipes out while putting the gloves on. Good that they only run up to his elbows − there's no way he could stuff his biceps into them. Do some sports, they said… In the end, he strips them off with a stupid amount of effort, since missing out on sensation is a bigger loss than not getting to be smug for getting every piece of the ensemble on. He likes to get handsy.

“No,” Vergil says curtly. Dante can hear him flip the page from here. Someone's (passive) aggressive.

“What if I ask you nicely?”

“No.”

“What if I say please?”

“_No_. I am cross with you already. Stop pestering me.”

“What if I ask Trish and Lady to help me with it?”

“I am sure they would enjoy it; after all, they do seem to be fond of telling stories of all the ways you have made an embarrassment out of yourself over the years. Shall I call them? You sound out of breath.”

Dante huffs. “Tough crowd. Okay, it's all the same to you. How about I pick a guy then, like that handsome dude with the sexy guns we helped last Friday, the one who left me his phone number? He'd enjoy helping me too, don't you think?” He doesn't mention he threw it out as soon as he spotted a trash bin around; Vergil is a fickle beast and bating him takes some restrain. Not to mention the pleasant jolt of power, dark and possessive and glorious, that ran in his spine at witnessing how Vergil's expression stiffened. No one else would've noticed a thing, he's sure about that, and judging by what happened next, the guy probably mistook Dante's sudden giddiness for mutual interest. Dante's glad he managed to swat the hand approaching his ass away before it reached him − as much as Vergil's jealousy thrills him, he at least tells himself it's not worth getting somebody impaled to death for.

He senses the put-upon huff before it occurs. Vergil's careful to put the book down and take his sweet time, but he comes. Dante gestures at his back and follows the progress from the reflection. The first pull is painful, an expression of the cautious violence he knows and covets and expects, but the rest are nearly gentle. Vergil laces the corselet silently, his focus on his fingers and the way they tighten his hold on him even when his eyes rest on Dante's, softer than the sour twist of his mouth.

“Occasionally, I wonder why I love you,” Vergil says and tugs the strings for the last time before tying them into a neat bow. He's always so casual about it. The first time he said it, he had had Dante bent double on his writing desk and was drilling into him just so, _Vergil, please,_ in his office and they had to stop because he couldn't stop crying like a bitch. He kept doing it, dropping the words before him every now and then; when they were standing in front of the fridge in the kitchen and rummaging through it to find something non-expired; when he was mopping the floor after a bout of friendly wrestling that may have gotten out of hand a bit and Dante was working hard at supervising him from the couch; when they were arguing about the water bills that had begun to get bigger after Dante had begun to demand shared showers for reducing the costs. It could be so easy to say it back when he offers the chance for it on a silver plate like this; just an offhand “you too” (or would it be a “me too” in this case?). He's had the words for it for decades, now, and yet.

“Does this make me look fat?” he says instead, the picture of eloquence. No, not today. Maybe tomorrow, the day after that. Next year. Some day he'll be ready.

Vergil taps him on the hip. “It is not the dress, it's your body. Perhaps you should consider readjusting your diet if that is a concern.”

“But you like my curves,” Dante pouts. He really does; their body type is very different these days, Vergil all wiry resilience and sleek, compact strength while Dante seems to pack more muscles than ever with little effort. Since pretty much the whole of his stomach can be seen peeking from the neckline that extends well beyond his navel, he can see how great his abs look for himself. He'd love to tell Vergil his eyes are up _here_, but instead of being transfixed on his cleavage, Vergil is brushing the turquoise feathers on his shoulders with his other hand. The person who designed this attire was clearly color blind − who in their right mind would combine bright orange with those and the sallow bluish green of the gloves? At least the wings look nice with his eyes.

“A sphere does not have curves, it is a curve,” Vergil scoffs. He's weirdly playful for someone who is supposedly pissed off with his antics, all this feigned distaste and mocking.

“Sex burns off calories.”

“So does exercise. Have a stroll if you feel so self-conscious.”

“So you'd let me get outside, looking like this? That's new.” Vergil taps his fingers again and removes his hand from where it has been sitting on his hip for the whole exchange. Instead of staying there and letting Dante press him on the floor or against the wall to be kissed and maybe blown if he can manage that with his current lung capacity, he retreats to the loveseat and picks his dead words up again. If he couldn't detect the faint red color on the tips of his ears, he'd almost think him unruffled. It must be something to behold for him to be so affected by it.

He turns towards the mirror take his appearance fully in.

So − the dress, if you have the imagination required to call it such, looked pretty bold on Gloria, but Trish's no-nonsense attitude and regal bearing made it seem like something a proud fighter of god could be wearing, somehow. He should consider taking some tips from the pro, because every streetwalker he's ever seen has hands-down worn more dignified shit than this (no disservice to the good ladies he hanged around with plenty of times in his youth; the pimps or whoever else that dresses them in things that don't deserve to be categorized as clothes can burn in hell for all he cares, though).

It's worse than bad, in a sense, but doesn't look bad.

Simply put, it's obscene. Really, really pornographic. Being buck naked has nothing on this. (Maybe Vergil's eyes were glued on his face because of it and not because of being a huge sap underneath the glacier front.)

He wonders if he should have applied some body oil like Trish had. It would've made mangling himself inside the dress easier, most likely. Or talc then, he hears it's a hit with latex. Not as sexy to be covered in baby powder as it is to have indecent amount of glistening wet skin on display. The close-cut fit of it brings his pecs out nicely anyway − no matter how vehemently he denies it, Vergil likes it when Dante flaunts his chest. And why wouldn't he, Dante thinks and grins at his reflection. Is this how girls feel like, having their tits complimented by their special someone or is he just high with confidence that's the real deal and not merely an affectation of a teen that has to be fake to survive? It's stupid and vain and he's silly with the dumb feeling, having positive emotions towards his own appearance and the world at large. He's never thought being in love suits him in any way, but like this it seems to agree with his shape like no lame article of clothing could.

In hindsight he should've shaved his chest for this, but he thinks Vergil secretly likes it as it is, likes running his fingers on it and tangling them in the hair, weirdly smooth and hairless himself. It probably has something to do with what was done to him in the underworld, so he's not going to ask him about it and not going to think about it when he's − weird to say it, weird to experience it − happy.

He doesn't quite have Trish’s waist, but the thing cinches him tightly enough that there seems to be an appearance of curves, at least − see, Vergil, he's just _voluptuous_. Sometimes not having to breathe as diligently as most bipeds does come in handy. An actual hourglass figure would require some serious heavy-duty materials; the golden lines on the sides exaggerate the illusion surprisingly well, though, and the bottom-heavy cut with the flaps on the front and back helps as well.

The underwear, pretty damn visible even when fully “dressed”, definitely doesn't guard his trifling modesty any. It barely coves a sliver of his dick, never mind the balls − it manages to make the whole shebang lewder than going commando under the dress, which, just as a reminder, is white and thin as a breath. The strip of fabric on the front sits too tightly on the hips and does nothing to mask the curve his crotch makes underneath it. Dante could slide a hand beneath the useless curtain and let some pressure loose. It would be a close fit, no doubt, and maybe it would mess with his circulation, but he can do without for a while just fine. Would be a waste to spend all this hassle just for that, so he will bite his teeth and wait. The material makes his ass look great, though, round and tight and perky. Shame about the amount of excessive energy he has today; it'd be nice to be pinned to the floor and taken from behind just to give Vergil an excellent view of it, but he feels the need to be more proactive about things. Maybe next time (he's reasonably sure Vergil won't carry his threat out now. Still got to make it count, just in case).

Then there are these garter-like strips bordered by lace on his sides. The only stockings he has are either tube socks, garishly colored odd ones or Vergil's, who, to Dante's knowledge, doesn't wear anything nylon and tight or knee high either. As exciting as it sometimes is to wear pieces of clothing stolen from him and having him so close to him even in absentia, he's dancing on a fine line here already − isn't wise to rile him up too much. He ends up shoving the ends of the suspenders into the boots and hopes for the best. The boots, though − they've got to be custom-made, there's no way some regular store carries these in his size. Scratch that − there's no way a regular shoe shop has this kind of stripper wear in their selection, period.

He did take same lessons in wearing killer shoes like this back in the day when he, for a minute, thought he could try and make a living out of bullshit like this, prancing on a stage and having people that are easily lead by their dicks throw money at him (also, he was quite drunk at the time). He went to a couple of shows in an attempt to learn a thing or two and simultaneously force himself to find someone else to be attracted to than his dead twin, and the women working there took a liking to him. Dante realized quickly it would end with him maiming some poor horny idiot who'd get the bright idea of trying to touch him, so he chose hunting demons instead and the rest is history. Be as it may, it turns out walking on heels isn't like riding a bike.

He makes a valiant effort, though. Vergil, still sitting and looking redder than usual, had better appreciate it.

Dante would like to pleat himself on his lap teasingly, fluent and flowing like silk, but the constricting getup causes him to do it by simply plopping his body on him. It's inelegant and whatnot, but it lands him right on Vergil's cock all the same. Not everything has to be about style points.

“What do you think?” Dante asks but robs him out of the chance to answer by kissing him. Finally. Vergil's tongue is wet against him; he sighs when Dante presses and takes his mouth, his palm settling on his spine. His head spins from the lack of oxygen that comes early and his skin feels like it's starting to steam and he starts to drown much too soon, greedy for more but being limited by his own tortured lungs.

“I prefer you out of this travesty of an outfit,” Vergil says when Dante gasps and draws back, runs his finger along the seam on the side. Dante shivers. He conducts the tremors to his hips and grinds down. The tip of the finger, now dancing on the edge of the hem and skin, turns into a nail that's this close to breaking through both.

“Aww; all the trouble I went through to get into it and now you tell me you want me naked? That's so cruel,” Dante whines. His voice is dry and thin, both higher and deeper than normal.

“I want you clothed and silent and on the other floor, but Fortuna does not seem to be on my side” Vergil says.

“The bed, then? That's very vanilla of you. The clothes could make it a little kinky, though.” Instead of sniping back at him, Vergil pulls the orange string that sits on his chest between the mostly covered nipples and mostly bare stomach and lets it loose with a loud snap against Dante's skin.

“Oww. What are you, five?” he says while rubbing the spot.

“My apologies. I was under the impression you always insist on fighting fire with fire. I can keep things civilized, if you prefer.”

“If you want to play fair, you need to lose the clothing. You're overdressed,” Dante notes and pokes the fastening of his pants with his finger. Since Vergil doesn't voice any objections, he sets out to open it, pushing himself back a bit to gain a better access. Why he keeps wearing no underwear he still doesn't know, but it's a pleasant surprise every time to unfasten the pants and being able to pull him out right away, already hard and a dark shade of pink. Keen. He latches onto him unceremoniously, being too fervid to play coy with his touch. He's so hot in his palm. Dante sweats under the high collar, feels the perspiration swim on his shoulders and hit the waves of heat his hand carries through the rest of him. He fondles him with wild, quick strokes and mocks nonchalance for the way it makes his palm and face heat up, having him throb and breathe in his hand. The cock about to penetrate him, he thinks and swallows Vergil's little moan with another kiss.

He made a quick work of prepping himself a bit earlier. It felt exquisitely dirty to walk around in his regular rags while sensing some spare droplets of oil trickle down his thighs, the lust drooling his legs wet, the way his hole felt both loose and tense in anticipation. He slips the underpants − strings, really, if even that − to the side and guides Vergil between his cheeks, already slick and hot and eager. The little “oh” he makes when Vergil lifts his hips to make the head slip in before he can lower himself on him is needy enough to flush his cheeks, but it's worth the embarrassment to see it make Vergil bite his lip and hum.

“Ah, don't you, − nnnh, _Vergil_ − don't you think you'd miss this?” he says while sinking down, down, down, until he's filled to the brim, until Vergil sighs and twitches deep in him. He basks in it for a while, tilts his body slowly on him, around him, until he finds an angle that burns the most, in which he rubs against his walls in a way that borders on unbearable. 

“My weight on you,” he says, tone low, hips lower. His head swims.

“The burn.” He throws his head back to sweep the hair from his eyes, spreads his legs wider apart.

“You inside me,” he says, just above a whisper.

“Dante,” Vergil moans when he clenches tightly around him, his rim a snug ring around the base. It's broken and beautiful.

“Would you?” Dante presses on, presses down. Hard. His heart hammers. All warmed and slicked up like this, he can work the cock in a smooth glide that still stretches him sweetly. Vergil's pulse beats deep within.

“I did,” he says. It's not an answer to his precise words but answers a question on the background of the levity, one he didn't even think of asking, not even when it has lingered on the back of his mind, quieter now when he has the honesty of his body to trust it. It's ridiculous and he's impossible and Dante loves him, maybe even says so, eventually. Not today, not this week.

Vergil laces his hand in the strings that pull the back of the piece together, making the corset tighter, tighter, his breathing more shallow and the trajectory of his hips steeper. He pulls − Dante gasps, close to shattering. It's like pinching himself, a corporeal reminder of this new reality, only better, only more real.

“Insatiable,” Vergil chides, soft like water in sunlight.

”Only for you,” he laughs in between intakes. It comes out just as husky and ludicrous as one could expect, but. Vergil can roll his eyes at his porn lines all he wants, but that doesn't explain away how his damp grip on his thigh tightens.

He's managed to keep his dick still trapped between the tight, form fitting lower part of the dress and his own skin. The bulge makes a particularly filthy visual when he gazes down to see how it looks like this, with the clothes. He groans when Vergil presses his other hand against it and makes lazy circles on the fabric. Too much. Not nearly enough.

“Were you planning to don this again?” Vergil asks him. Might as well be asking the dick: of course he has to do it by almost pressing his mouth on his ear and breathing hotly against it, his voice infuriatingly stable. It reacts to his voice, but it's difficult to say what the straining means, other than that he's dying if he doesn't come. Dante's brain is short circuiting and preventing him from answering; it doesn't help that Vergil decides to nip the lobe, the fucking tease, and buck his hips punishingly at the same time.

“I interpret that as you promising me no.”

He'd like to point out he's ready to promise him the sun and the moon and all the worlds between like this, if he keeps building the pressure up in his lower body like this, but he'd rather use the time to kiss him and grind himself against him blindly, sweat clinging to his lashes − he's sweating more than he should be, with how little he's truly wearing, unsure if the wetness dribbling down his legs is that or precome or even blood. He loves how he doesn't have to be careful with his weight on him like he thinks he should with someone else, some insignificant human; Vergil can take him pressing on him until his legs hurt and hover on the verge of spraining, wants him like that, Vergil meets his more and more wawering rhythm halfway in the middle and pulls deep groans out of him as easily as the fabric bunches under his ministrations. His nipples and lungs ache and he wants it tighter --

The compression around his ribs does ease when he hears the sound of fabric ripping. He's apparently using one of his better party tricks, partial triggering. It's only one finger this time − Dante has fond memories of the time when he managed to pester him into taking him against the bedroom wall that way, the lovely, lovely pain of it, the closeness of being full enough to lose sense of which pleasure and strain belonged to Vergil and which to him, being worked wide open physically and figuratively −, but he's already so overwhelmed that it'd be too much of a good thing. Vergil guides the claw lower, the touch caressing his skin but never breaking it, meticulous with his deadly bite even when the rest of him trembles like Dante does and when he frees his human hand from the lacing to bring Dante down quicker, erratic. Then the other side, the back, the orange lacing, until he's naked and desperately close. When Vergil comes, he's silent and his hands don't leave him. It's painful to bring himself over the edge, he's too sore, his eyes hurt, Vergil's claw presses into his skin too tightly and sharply. It's good.

He pants against Vergil's neck for a while and waits for his body to turn solid again. He feels and hears Vergil slip out of him. It's a lovely moment, so he has to ruin it.

“Will you stop having sex with me now?” he says and presses a possessive mark on his neck while cleaning his cock with the shreds, using more force than necessary on both accounts. Vergil groans, not in displeasure.

“Will you be able to sit still and quiet for five minutes if I read to you?”

Dante replies by dabbing himself dry cursorily and curling on his lap. It's going to be disgusting in a few minutes, but until that, it's nice. He'll wait for his wits to resurface and then yell at him for a bit for destroying a valued gift. Then a shower. They're even: Vergil can make him stop being angry with some make-up making out and so they're both happy. Incredible.

(Honestly, he doesn't think he would've managed getting it off without cutting it to pieces himself anyway, but he doesn't have to say that.)

Vergil's voice is wrecked and fond when he settles into a better position after fishing out a thinner book from the floor.

“Aufillena, viro contentam vivere solo,  
nuptarum laus ex laudibus eximiis:  
sed cuivis quamvis potius succumbere par est,  
quam matrem fratres efficere ex patruo”

**Author's Note:**

> What, I'm writing fluff (or rather, mostly angst-free smut) now? I was replaying DMC 4 for the story I'm writing and got inspired. It's not going to habit, that I can swear.
> 
> I didn't add this one to the series because a) mindless smut b) no angst c) I have no idea what continuity this follows (maybe even canon post DMC 5?).
> 
> The promised translation:
> 
> “Aufillena, to live content with one man  
is the glory of all the wives' glories;  
but it is better for anyone to succumb to anyone  
than for a mother to bear brothers for a cousin.”


End file.
